Outside snow drifts by to the tune of Matchstick Men. Like a motion picture superimposed on a still background, seen through a still foreground. It amazes me how the window keeps out so much cold and lets in so much warmth.
The snow is falling.
The skies are falling piece by piece, bit by bit.
Look up and see the white shroud collapsing onto us.
It’s said that some of the ancestors were afraid of the sky falling on their heads. What if our heads fell into the sky?
Drifting with the snow along silent streets, past icy caps and as I see the grass it slows. And the trees. Dark brown boughs with powdery leaves of white, like peculiar moss. The moss grows on the North side, they say. I see the glittering snow like little diamonds, like dainty and soft raindrops dusting down from the canopy. On the floor the old, dying falls from the branches refrain from curling and instead lie open, their features lit by twinkling stars: they are something from a painting brought to life.
The scene is not dead.
Robins, sparrows, small fliers and squirry squirrels are gliding under arches or dancing in white fields – seemingly softer ice rinks – and sugary clouds erupt to mark the passage, or the entrance, of the birds.
Somewhere a slender stream flows along a lane of saplings, filled with darts of fish and carrying damp ducklings to their patient mothers.
You stand amongst the trees, overlooking the small valley up on the crest of a small hill.
The snow is falling like particles of god’s skin, melting into the landscape and the creatures and making them sacred, covering them in blessed blankets.
I see you as a patch of colour in the whiteness, a ruddy and warming rose. And the blessed and the red burn like a healing fire.
And I’m looking down the slope of the ground, past the frozen muds with their icy pools, into the widening valley, hearing the rush of the water, the calm collapse of the sky settling on earth.
I see you cresting a hill of verdant green.
I see white.
Trees enclosed in a bursting blizzard of snow.
And I’m falling.
Warmth back through the window.
I return with ice on my boots.
The door is locked.
I am snowed-in.
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Reblogged from Hippocras.wordpress.com, now in stasis.